December 19, 2008--Snowbirding: Living With Your 201(k)

We've been very fortunate. Still are in spite of the downturn in the economy. But we too have been hit by declining equities values. Enough to wonder where’s the equity in equities and to do a lot more cutting back than we’re used to. Some of this is because we want to be prudent, but we also do not feel good about overspending when so many are hurting much worse than we.

This brings me to the epicenter of the current depression—the southeast coast of Florida. About 20 miles from where Bernie Madeoff perpetrated his $50 billion Ponzi scheme.

The debris from that and the inexorable rippling of the plummeting real estate market are all around us. We encounter more people here than up north who need to sell their homes now for fear of losing them to the banks; others who have already seen their property taken from them by the banks; friends who after 25 years of loyalty to their companies tossed out of work and despairing that they are too old to ever again find a job; others packing up to move to they-do-not-know-where; auto dealers surrounded by lots filled with cars and not a single customer in sight; and sprinkled in every downtown and mall are vacant or boarded-up stores.

Yet in spite of this pervasive despair most folks are struggling on, enjoying the day, and making the best of things though not knowing what next will come crashing down.

Thus it is a little difficult to be back here living well among so many who are worried about tomorrow. In past years those most anxious about tomorrow have been the older residents whose every ache and flutter reminds them that the end, the End, is near. Now they have their money to add to their list of worries.

We’ve been to see my 100 year-old mother; and though she too is fortunately financially secure, she watches CNBC more than is good for her. And most of the ladies where she lives are thinking more about their unfixed incomes than their blood pressure numbers. Though God knows, with all that’s going on, they must be sky high.

One nonagenarian said to me, “I’ve lost so much money in the market that my 401(k) is looking more like a 201(k).” It was good to see that for some at least the sense of humor is the last thing to go.

Here in residence for just a few days we have already have what might be called contact financial-anxiety. I’m not sure if this syndrome appears as yet in any medical or psychiatric texts but we are two proto, living case studies.

Take last night as an example of the symptomology. After seeing the dreadful Synecdoche (unendurably long and intellectually pretentious in spite of a tour de force performance by Seymour Philip Hoffman), needing a guilty-pleasure treat, we snuck into Anthony’s for a charred coal-fired pizza topped with tiny meatballs. Delicious!

We made the mistake of ordering the large pie and when even after stuffing ourselves so that I still have heartburn, three slices remained. This is Florida and since the first Anglo settlers arrived residents have been taking home half eaten rolls, portions of uneaten mashed potatoes, and the two remaining barbequed spare ribs, our waiter asked if he should pack the slices up for us.

In the past, knowing our wasteful habits we would have smiled back at him and said, “No thank you.” With the smile meaning we’re from New York City, downtown New York City, and we don’t do doggie bags; we don’t eat leftovers. Can you imagine how we would be regarded, our look we hoped communicated, if we ever asked the waitress at Balthazar in Soho to pack up the bread left over from our panier order? Next time we showed up they would seat us with the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.

But last night as I was into my being-cool mode, Rona said, “Sure, why not? Who knows, maybe we’ll have them for lunch tomorrow.”

Back in the car, with the pizza box on the back seat, I said, “Pizza tonight and again tomorrow for lunch? That doesn’t make sense to me. Too much pizza.”

Rona, as usually, was way ahead of me, “We can wrap the slices in aluminum foil and freeze them. We have a real oven here—not like in the City where we only have a microwave—and I’m sure they’ll reheat wonderfully. We can have them for lunch one day next week.”

“But I thought,” I sputtered back, “we never . . .”

In the dim light from the dashboard I could see Rona smiling at me, and her smile reminded me where we were and how the times have changed.

I could see that she was already thinking, Maybe we’ll get some salad greens at the farmers market on Saturday. Mesclun should be in season and it should be perfect with the leftover pizza.